


I will shake mountains

by sshysmm



Category: And Then We Danced (2019)
Genre: (obviously it would hardly be an ATWD fic without it), And They Were Lodgers Together, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Fear of Coming Out, First Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, London, M/M, Post-Canon, Secret Relationship, background fear of homophobia, got that new fandom fear please be nice, immigrant life, what if we treated one detail in canon as a little white lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: "Merab."Irakli interrupted Mary's aunt, and Merab knew that he must have blushed at the sound of his own name in that much-missed, drawling voice."We've met." With effort, Irakli pulled his lips up into another grin, shook his head at something, and turned back to pouring the wine."Oh, of course," Mary's aunt turned back to the serving plates. "You are both dancers, and you were both recommended by Mary - I should have guessed you'd know each other. How nice, to share a new city with a friend!"Merab has left the National Ensemble for a place at a London dance school. He's lodging with Mary's aunt - and owes Mary alotof good English cigarettes for setting him up.To his surprise, Mary's aunt has a second lodger: Irakli is also in London, studying at the same dance school, and not, in fact, married to a girl in Batumi. He and Merab begin anew the process of figuring out what they want from each other, and what new possibilities their life in London offers.-I wanted to keep the feeling of the film as a ‘warm embrace’: this isn't a perfect world, but this fic focusses on the good things.
Relationships: Merab Lominadze/Irakli
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love the ending of the film and wouldn't change a thing. But also I want Merab to be safe and happy, and I wish he and Irakli had had more time. So here is some self-indulgent, lightly-tropey fluff.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Erinaceina](http://erinaceina-blog.tumblr.com/) for all kinds of crazy things: first off, for encouraging me to write fic for ATWD, also for cheerleading as I wrote it, and finally, immensely, for beta-ing the monster and putting up with my constant pestering. Katherine you're the best. <3

The grey streets were bewildering in their uniqueness at first, and then soon after they became stranger for their similarity to one another. Merab wiped his fingers in circles through the condensation covering the bus window and peered fretfully at the deepening twilight. He checked the address he had been given again, mouthing the unfamiliar sounds. The bus driver seemed to know where he wanted to go, and said he would tell Merab when to get off, but the longer the route continued the more Merab began to doubt. The bus twisted and turned through slow-moving traffic and onto narrow residential roads lined with identical terraced houses or square blocks of flats.

It was outside one of the latter when, at last, he heard the bus driver call the name of the street he wanted. Merab jumped to his feet and hurried for his suitcase - his thank you was first in Georgian, then he remembered himself and added the English as he swung down from the bus and looked up at the building where Mary's aunt lived. The windows were lighting up as night fell, just like they did in the block he had grown up in. He felt a lump in his throat, guilt and homesickness already catching up on him when he thought of his mother and his grandma - they were learning to live under Sopo and David's roof now.

Merab searched the signs around the stairwells until he found the right one for number 28 and then dragged his heavy bag up the concrete steps.

Mary's aunt kept plants on the narrow walkway outside her flat. She had bedecked the overhang of the walkway above with strings of coloured wool and glass, and Merab smiled at the familiar smells of home cooking that worked their way free from the misted kitchen window. He pressed the bell, which gave a harsh electrical buzz instead of the warm chime he expected.

Mary's aunt greeted him with a broad smile. She was an odd mixture of the professional and the traditional, wearing a black turtleneck and floral apron, smelling of perfume and baking. She paused, her arms wide, and then went ahead and enfolded Merab in a hug.

"Welcome to London; you must be Merab?"

He told her that he was, grinning and finding it more of a relief than he had expected just to hear his own language again after the journey. Mary's aunt spoke with the uneven grammar of one who had spent years existing among speakers of another tongue, but her enthusiasm and warmth remained thoroughly Georgian to Merab's grateful ears.

She asked about his journey and laughed easily when he told her about how confusing the streets seemed and how huge London was when you looked down on it from the plane. She asked after Mary, and Merab told her all he knew - that Mary was well, and that Mary was too kind to have put him in touch with her aunt.

Mary was starting her first semester of classes in Tbilisi and learning about things beyond dance. But she had united with David to push Merab's ambitions further afield, and now he found himself on the cusp of a new regime of training at a London conservatoire, a lodger with Mary's aunt, indebted to Mary to the tune of an unquantifiable number of good English cigarettes.

He had to hold back from diving into the bowl of pomegranate seeds on the kitchen counter as Mary's aunt chatted and agreed with him what a good girl Mary was. She eyed him, like she might have been about to ask a very familiar question - _weren't you two an item?_ \- but instead she clapped a hand to her cheek.

"Oh, my manners! Look at you in your coat still holding those heavy bags. Let me show you to your room."

Merab followed her deeper into the single story flat, finding that it was smaller than he had expected, though somehow fitted in more rooms.

Mary's aunt opened one thin door and revealed a long, narrow bedroom with half a square window at the end. The bed took up most of the space, and with a chest of drawers by its head, beneath the window, it left barely room for three paces from the door across the bare laminate floor. Merab swallowed and made himself smile gratefully - it would be a novelty to have his own room, but he worried about where he would be able to practice.

He put his bags down on the floor and shrugged off his coat, breathing in the smell of lavender on the sheets. Mary's aunt was explaining that she did not usually cook elaborate Georgian meals and he should not get used to it - but for their first night in England she thought her boys would be homesick.

He might have supposed it to be one of her grammatical slips, only then she added, "It's funny, the two of you turning up at once. No lodger for months and then my house is full! He's sleeping at present; he was on a very early flight. So, you take your time, unpack, I will call you boys when the table needs setting."

Merab blinked and nodded - Mary had not mentioned that anyone else would be staying there. Perhaps she hadn't known.

He declined the offer of tea and Mary's aunt left him alone in the small room. The mattress was old but well cared for, and though the plaster-board walls of the flat meant that every sound and smell from the kitchen reached him, Merab smiled to think that these four walls were to be his very own for - three years?

He opened his rucksack and carefully removed a handful of paper: the posters and cut-outs he had kept above his bed for years, which he laid reverently down on the chest of drawers, and a fat envelope with Mary's loose, scrawling handwriting on it: _For Merab. Do NOT open until after you get to my aunt's_.

Flinging himself back on the bed, shoes and all, Merab plucked his gold cross from beneath his clothes and held it between his lips as he tore into the paper. His impatient eyes skimmed over the untidy lines of writing: Mary's chatter about her own journeys to London, her vague directions to the famous milkshake shop she loved so much. A line caught his attention - _I'm sorry I didn't tell you_ \- and then Merab started at the sound to his right.

The pendant fell from his lips as he looked anew at the wall beside the bed. The body of the second lodger had knocked against the other side of it and Merab had felt the vibrations in his own mattress. Perhaps the four walls were less his than he had imagined. He sighed and returned his attention to the letter, but before he recovered his place, Mary's aunt called out that she needed help setting the table.

Merab jumped up and nearly tripped over his own suitcase. He threw the pages he had been reading onto the bed and quickly began to shove his clothing into the chest of drawers. The only item that he took any care with was the wine-red chokha with its loose, lavishly decorated lines of masrebi across the breast. He hung that on the hook on the back of the door and paused, staring at it like he was squaring up, shoulder to shoulder, with a dance partner. Merab leaned his head against the fabric and imagined that it still smelled of Irakli, and not of the washing powder his grandmother used.

Down the corridor, plates rattled against one another, voices murmured together, and Merab pulled himself back from his memories. He stepped from his room, closing the door fastidiously, and was struck with an odd thought as he picked up more detail of the conversation between Mary's aunt and the other lodger. The voice of the latter...

"Ah, here he comes! Let me introduce you boys to each other," Mary's aunt said, holding one arm out towards the little square table opposite the kitchen space.

It was with a feeling of dizziness that Merab raised his eyes to the man who stood by the table, wine bottle in hand, stunned smile stiffening on his mouth.

Heat unfurled in Merab's body, like limbs opening. He could not suppress his own smirk, nor the knowing look in his eyes, but understanding kept his head low, restrained by worry and - not least - by a deepening hurt at the other man's shocked expression.

Irakli's body straightened; the wine remained unpoured. But there was a metallic glint at his left ear, and no jewellery on his large, handsome hands - and Merab's mind was already a blur of excited questions. Still, Irakli's face, so alive when he smiled, fell shut, and Merab said nothing, in case Irakli preferred to pretend that they did not know one another.

"Merab."

Irakli interrupted Mary's aunt, and Merab knew that he must have blushed at the sound of his own name in that much-missed, drawling voice.

"We've met." With effort, Irakli pulled his lips up into another grin, shook his head at something, and turned back to pouring the wine.

"Oh, of course," Mary's aunt turned back to the serving plates. "You are both dancers, and you were both recommended by Mary - I should have guessed you'd know each other. How nice, to share a new city with a friend!"

Merab sauntered towards the table and Irakli avoided looking at him, chuckling silently, ruefully as he concentrated on setting out the cutlery in neat lines. He tried to keep himself angled away from Merab - tried not to acknowledge Merab's demanding, hungry expression - but in one moment Irakli's control slipped, and when it did, Merab's heart punched the air.

All the softness in Irakli's eyes was still for him; the sweetness that lay behind the swagger. Irakli didn't mean to show it, but Merab knew that look so well, had thirsted after it and the memory of it, running over and over the times he had seen Irakli's face transformed by wonder, so that now - now there was no way Irakli could fool Merab into missing it.

Merab's cheeks hurt from smiling, even as Irakli circled around the opposite side of the table from him and returned to the kitchen counter to ask what help he could be. Merab watched him with love, unabashed, on his face, while Mary's aunt and Irakli stood with their backs to him.

He tweaked what had already been set out by Irakli, tidying napkins and serving spoons as the other two brought warm dishes full of chicken and bread over to the table.

Over plates of comforting food and glasses of a Georgian white Irakli had managed to bring in his suitcase, they performed all the moves of polite conversation. Irakli passed plates and accepted serving spoons with care, never brushing Merab's fingers with his fingers as they exchanged items. Beneath the table Irakli's legs remained tucked close to his chair, tense and still while Merab fidgeted and shifted constantly to his left.

The longest glance they exchanged, held for a silent moment, came when it was revealed that they were both on the same BA programme at the same dance school. The charge in the air could be mistaken for competitiveness - it _had_ been mistaken for competitiveness - but through lowered lashes, his head cocked back to survey Irakli, from his wrists to the neck of his t-shirt, from the black hairs curling up above it to Irakli's wide, watchful gaze, Merab was guided by admiration, and the thrill of possibilities opening up anew.

They rehearsed details of their lives for the benefit of Mary's aunt, circling around what they might know of one another - as mere casual acquaintances.

"How are David and Sopo? Married life suiting them?"

"Quite well. It's made my grandmother happy, at least." Merab bit his lip and laughed nonchalantly. "And, didn't you - didn't you have a girl in Batumi? How does she feel about you studying in England?"

Irakli shook his head and pushed food around his plate. "Ah, that's over now." He shrugged.

Mary's aunt made a sound of sympathy and spoke about the need for a change when one suffered from a broken heart, but Merab barely heard her words.

"What about your parents?" he asked breathlessly.

Irakli gave him a sideways look, maybe warning him to back off, maybe grateful that he had thought to ask. "Oh, my Mum insisted I took the place," he said.

Merab laughed. "My parents didn't want me to come."

"The course not traditional enough for them?" Irakli's smile relaxed a little. Merab explained quickly that for his grandma that was the case, for his father he just didn't believe it would lead to anything, and for his mother it was simply that she could not bear not having him around.

"I thought my Mum would be the same," Irakli plucked at a piece of bread. "But she practically kicked me out of the house." His drawling, self-deprecating laugh signalled a lowering of his defences, and Merab sighed with relief behind his wine glass.

Later, as he stood at the sink, hands submerged in frothy water, Merab found the courage to ask Mary's aunt if he could practice in the sitting area opposite the kitchen.

"Will you not be practicing all day anyway?" she exclaimed, accepting a clean, dry plate from Irakli, who now stood close enough for Merab to smell the familiar blend of his deodorant and aftershave, who no longer flinched awkwardly if their fingers overlapped when Merab handed a dripping item over to the drying rack for Irakli to take.

Merab shrugged. "I always practice at home, too."

"You probably won't need to; we'll be doing enough on the course, and there's the studios on campus," Irakli commented.

Taking Mary's aunt's side against him? Merab scowled at the glass he was washing. "I need to find a job, too," he said.

"There's a restaurant in Islington, I can take you there at the weekend," Mary's aunt said. "It's a fancy place, but sometimes there's entertainment as well, so I think they'll be happy to know a couple of young artists."

Merab sat in impatient silence when the three of them removed once more to the sitting area and Mary's aunt talked about London as she worked on a piece of hand-sewing. Merab had the whole couch to himself. Irakli was sitting on a different item of furniture, and Merab could not stand it. Mary's aunt kept her eyes on her work, and more and more frequently, Merab's gaze rose hopefully to Irakli's face, observing his polite interest in their hostess's words. His dark brows rose, his lips, playfully lopsided, pulled up until creases showed at his eyes.

Eventually, Mary's aunt yawned. "You must be tired from the journey, boys! I'm tired, I'm not used to all that work in the kitchen."

Merab could not imagine being tired ever again, not when he looked at Irakli and felt ready to bubble over like a pot with all the questions he still needed to ask. He bit his thumbnail and shook his head at Mary's aunt as she gestured expectantly at him.

Irakli fidgeted on his chair. "Nah, I slept too much in the afternoon," he said ruefully.

Merab's pulse beat a ferocious rhythm. He made himself smile sweetly as Mary's aunt shuffled around, slowly putting her sewing away, slowly arranging a herbal tea and hot water bottle for herself, refilling the bowl of cat food and water in a corner of the kitchen floor.

"Goodnight boys." She made her way down the corridor and Merab stared at Irakli until he heard the click of a door closing.

Irakli's eyes were wide and tender, as they had been when he had looked across at Merab during David and Sopo's wedding. It was a look that could only wring Merab's smile wider, his chest tighter. But when Merab moved to stand he was warned away: Irakli's fingers rose to ask him to pause, and he mouthed _wait_ at Merab.

A moment later they heard their hostess leave her bedroom again and go into the bathroom. The sound of running water and her aimless humming travelled dimly down the corridor.

Merab never knew what made Irakli's moods swing between heavy-lidded, languid amusement and closed, stiff-jawed reticence: he seemed slow to convince himself of his feelings, but when he figured them out he acted in a rush, and his expression shifted with dizzying speed. Right now, after taking so long to relax at dinner, Irakli was looking at Merab with barely suffused laughter in his expression.

What could he do but smile back, hopelessly gripped by this feeling he thought he would never get to enjoy again?

Merab saw no need to remain silent, listening to the sounds of Mary's aunt brushing her teeth. "Sorry, didn't you want me here?" he murmured, seeking to remind Irakli of their last conversation alone together, and the encouragement he had subsequently given Irakli: _I want you here_.

Oblivious, or not interested in re-enacting those words, Irakli only said in a whisper: "I had no idea. No idea. Was this Mary's plan?"

Merab shrugged. "She didn't tell me. She didn't tell me she'd spoken to you at all. I'm being honest," he added when Irakli's brow turned sceptical. All of the energy that had built up inside him, all of the longing to cross the room in two great strides and hold Irakli's face between his hands, was reaching an intolerable crest. It fizzed and crackled at the edges of his body: Merab's knees jogged and the fingers of one hand twined and twisted about those of his other hand.

"I thought you'd be married by now." He looked down as he said it, thinking of how David had described his future. _A drunk, fat Georgian man, working for his father-in-law_. Was that what marriage was? What staying behind meant? He had never been able to square such a vision with what he knew of Irakli (as for David, well, Merab could acknowledge that likelihood without compromising any fraternal affection).

Irakli sat still and inscrutable as they listened to Mary's aunt leave the bathroom and return to her bedroom.

"Nah." He leaned back in his chair, and Merab thought that he now recognised when Irakli's confidence became an act - a diversion from some other uneasiness. "It didn't work out."

"What about your father?" Merab pressed, a little bluntly.

Irakli's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed, the involuntary tensing of his throat made obvious by the way he had tipped his head back against the wing of the chair. "He died."

Guileless, sincere and warm, Merab said immediately: "I'm sorry."

Irakli used to scrutinise Merab closely after such decisive pronouncements, as though checking whether he could really be as certain of his response as he sounded. Now he just moved his chin slightly in acknowledgement. "Yeah. Thanks."

For a moment, Merab listened to the absence of silence: London was extraordinarily busy, even at this time of night. He could hear people moving in the flat upstairs, talking on the walkways outside the flats, cars passing on the street below, the rumble of the Underground still further away. He shifted on the edge of the couch, leaning forward earnestly, watching Irakli gaze at the thin curtains.

"So your Mum didn't need you to stay?" Merab prompted him again.

Abruptly, Irakli stood and smoothed down the legs of his jeans. "Look, I didn't ask for this," he said in his low drawl.

Merab got up to intercept him as Irakli crossed the sitting room on a diagonal path, intending to leave. "For what?"

Irakli snorted. He looked at their feet: he moved his weight to one side and Merab mirrored him, close but not touching.

Merab held his breath, waiting for an answer, a look, any encouragement...

They sprang apart as a crack echoed through the little flat and both stared down at the large fluffy feline that had stepped through the cat flap in the front door.

The cat shook its cloud of silvery fur out and looked up at them with narrow blue eyes. Mary's aunt opened her bedroom door and called the animal, which trotted down the corridor, a bell tinkling on its collar. She did not close the door after it.

Irakli looked at Merab and shook his head. He left.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I heard from Sopo, who heard from David, that there was no girl in Batumi._ _(oh I don't think David KNOWS knows about you and Irakli, he thinks he was just humouring you at my birthday, being polite or whatever, just friendly). Or, maybe there was one once (a girl in Batumi), but there wasn't a fiancée. So anyway, Sopo said that David said Irakli was miserable and needed to come back to Tbilisi but that he wouldn't and was using his mum as an excuse but Merab I'm pretty sure he's been pining after you. He's just scared. So I found out from them he'd been offered a place at the London school and I knew you were looking there too so YES I encouraged you, don't be mad. After his dad died I didn't think he'd go, but David put him in touch with me so I could ask my aunt if she had space for a lodger._

_And the rest...is history?_

_Really though, don't be mad - and go easy on him. I guess, all told, I wasn't really that surprised when I found out about you. (even if you did promise to marry me when we were kids - way to break a girl's heart) But I think Irakli was surprised about himself, if that makes sense? And please don't give my aunt a heart attack, she's kind, but people her age don't really get it I think._

_Call me when you're settled in and tell me everything. I am so excited for you. Love love love and give one of your best hugs to my aunt from me, Mary._

Lying very still on his bed, toying with his pendant again, Merab read Mary's letter more carefully this time. She had always been chatty, but he found a new torrent of friendliness in their interactions now: a candid, inviting warmth that he supposed was how she talked to her girlfriends. It was a little exasperating but suffused with such goodwill that he could not resent it. Just like this gesture she had made.

Thoughtfully, Merab worked the little gold cross against his lips. His first response was still to be mad - but at Irakli, not Mary. He thought of Irakli carefully moving away from him in the room at the wedding party, projecting an air of pragmatism and maturity - as though what they had shared was something that was not on a level with the serious business of life as it had always been. He was mad at himself for playing along - and for thinking that made him seem sensible and level-headed, and that it was better to be like that than to show himself moon-struck with love.

He wondered if Irakli had planned the lie about being engaged, or if, watching David and Sopo follow the priest's directions, inspiration had struck him only then. It hurt that he had held onto the lie that evening, keeping up appearances for Mary's aunt. Merab thought they had been pretending not to know each other so well for her sake - evidently, it had not been pretended as much as he had thought.

Merab wanted to pour scorn on Mary's suggestion that Irakli had been afraid: Irakli, with his earring, sauntering in late, squaring up to Luka and David, stepping up to perform for strangers on the street, casting a dangerous grin at Merab as they danced the kintouri together for the first time. Merab pulled a face at Mary's letter and flicked the end of the cross in his lips, sucking at the sharp metallic taste.

He leafed through the creased sheets of Mary's correspondence. Inside the pages of her letter she had enclosed photographs printed on ordinary paper, lined with odd colours of ink, as though the cartridge had been running low. They had been taken on the weekend of her birthday party by a relative. There were the smiling faces of all the guests along the length of the table outside, raising glasses in cheer, with Mary's dad presiding at the head. And indoors, there was Merab caught between Mary and Teona's arms, grinning with his eyes closed, his orange hoodie turned yellow by the print-out. Also included was an awkward shot of David smiling and frowning at the same time, sitting next to Irakli at the lunch table. Irakli looked intimidatingly, broodingly handsome, cigarette in hand, thoughtful expression turned away in total ignorance of the camera trained on him. And finally a photo of Mary sitting snuggled with Sopo on a chair in the garden, her dark eyes narrow and her smile tolerant as Sopo leaned around her - in the background, not quite in focus, Irakli was reaching out a playful hand to shove Merab's shoulder. It was a demand for attention that was unnecessary, with Merab's smile already turned fully on him.

What did Irakli have to fear? Merab thought peevishly. Luka would never have dared play the trick he'd played on Merab if it had been Irakli asleep on the bench. Still, he gazed at the photo of Irakli at the table and wondered whether there was more to the straight lines of his brows and mouth in the image than casual, thoughtless good looks. Merab stroked a finger over the print-out, tracing Irakli's expression beneath its tip.

In the bedroom next door, mattress springs creaked and the bed frame scraped against the wall. Merab closed his eyes and imagined that the thin barrier was not there, that they could at least lie face to face, scrupulously separate, as they had done that night in the countryside.

He did not respond to the soft tap, assuming it to be another side-effect of Irakli shifting around on the bed. Then it came again, and a third time, against the window. Half of the window was in Merab's room and half in the adjoining room - one standard suite had been made into two tiny rooms at some point in the flat's history (by an enterprising and very proud landlord, no doubt). One latch could be accessed from Merab's room, one from Irakli's room, but the window would only open if both latches were released.

Merab turned in a rush, scrambling on hands and knees up to the pillow, his heart racing as he unlatched the window and pushed out. The window did not open far - the partition wall prevented it from rotating inwards at the top - but it was far enough to let in the sounds of London nightlife, and for Merab to hear Irakli's soft laughter clearly on the other side of the wall.

"I thought you'd gone to sleep." Merab could hear his smile. He leaned his face against the wall, the curtain tossed back over his shoulders like a veil, his hands on the windowsill keeping him balanced.

"No. I'm not tired."

"Me neither." Irakli's voice came from a point more distant from the wall and the window, but he was close enough that he could speak softly, even over the taxis and buses and chatter on the street behind the block. "You want a cigarette?"

A moment later, his hand appeared in the space at the bottom of the open window, one cigarette held out for Merab to take. A peace offering.

As the scent of smoke from Irakli's cigarette wafted through the gap, he passed a lighter through as well, letting his hand remain steady as Merab enveloped plastic and fingers together, greedy for touch.

It took a few puffs for Merab to get it lit: his smile wouldn't let his lips relax.

He held the lighter out for Irakli to reclaim and shivered as the other man's touch lingered in turn on his skin.

Against the darkness outside, Merab's reflection in the glass was luminous. His orange hoodie was brighter than the streetlights, the fiery tip of his cigarette picked out the curves of his features and his fringe of unruly cowlicks and highlighted them with gold. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes when Irakli's voice next came from close by - just the other side of the partition.

"I'm sorry. It was just a surprise to see you here."

Merab absorbed Irakli's words - so near - and let the distant sounds outside the window wash against him.

"I really wasn't going to come to London," Irakli added, and Merab thought that Mary had been right after all - there was a tremor of uncertainty beneath the languid tone.

"But you weren't going to get married either," Merab said simply. There was no blame in his voice. He couldn't stay mad when longing filled him up to overflowing.

Irakli sighed. From the sound of it, he knocked his head gently against the wall. "Mary told you?"

"Of course."

"I don't know who's a bigger gossip, her or Sopo or your brother."

A few inches of plaster and wood: but for that, Merab would be leaning his head on that broad shoulder, feeling Irakli's chin in his hair as he bowed towards him in return.

Still, he felt a belated flare of defensiveness on Mary's behalf.

Before he could object, he heard Irakli move restlessly again and clear his throat like he was psyching himself up to continue speaking.

"I did have a girlfriend in Batumi. But we broke up before I came to Tbilisi. I lied to Luka because it was the easiest way to deal with his shit. And I'm not...I didn't think I was..."

Merab's smile was bittersweet as he listened to Irakli struggle for the words. "No," he said softly, absolving Irakli of the need to put a label to it. "I know."

They finished their cigarettes, murmured goodnight to one another and drew the window shut. When Merab finally drifted off to sleep he was curled against the cool surface of the wall, and the photos Mary had sent were scattered on the pillow by his head. He dreamed of the journey back to Tbilisi after Mary's birthday, but he looked at his happiness from a distance and wondered whether he ought not to have been sad, knowing now what came after - and what did not come after.


	3. Chapter 3

It _was_ good to share a new city with a friend. While Mary's aunt worked during the day, Merab and Irakli got their bearings, got their bank accounts, got their first taste of life in London. They had a couple of weeks before term started, and the bureaucracy of moving to a new country drained their time in unexpected ways. Forms, British slang, more forms, and the shock of expensive cigarettes and alcohol chastened them both.

In the flat they remained cordial and distant, except when, in the long early hours of the night or the morning, one knocked against the other's wall, and they exchanged bare, soft platitudes about the day as they smoked against the shared window. It made Merab ache, to have Irakli so close at hand, but to go on acting like they had never touched, never been so in sync that Merab might have lost track of himself in the feeling of Irakli's body entwined around and against him. Those nights at the summerhouse seemed like a dream beneath orange light, dappled by the shade of trees. The strange fear that he had imagined the whole thing kept Merab from pushing against Irakli's reticence.

Outside the flat, Merab could only soothe his disappointment with the hope that they were acting out a delayed phase of courtship. He learned to read between the lines of Irakli's confident appearance: the way he thinned his lips and breathed through his nose on the bus as they travelled to the bank, worrying about the process of setting up a transfer to his mum's account. The way he watched the busy streets with his head low, smoking tight up against a wall as he took it all in. There was a readiness and a watchfulness about him, as of someone from a sunny port city of 200,000 people encountering, for the first time, the sheer variety and volume of London's 9 million inhabitants.

They met the owner of the restaurant in Islington. Mary's aunt gave them glowing references - such quiet, polite boys, so well-behaved. To further please the owner, Mary's aunt took a table for the three of them and ordered a tray of dumplings to share. Merab was a shoo-in, with his experience waiting in Tbilisi, though the owner needed a little more persuading to find shifts for Irakli. Joining Mary's aunt at the table, Merab gave him space to make his arguments, and heard only snatches of Irakli's even, equanimous speech - he joked that he had excellent balance as a dancer, and Merab heard the charm sparkle in his voice. He knew the owner would be won over.

When he was not possessed by thoughts of Irakli, Merab saved his own nerves for everything concerning the beginning of the university term. He had not practised in days and it made him irritable and anxious. It was probably the longest he had gone without practice since he had started to dance. He complained about it ceaselessly - until Irakli hauled him from the flat early one morning and led them on a jog around the side-streets, along the bank of the canal, and through a small local park. With the cold, damp air in his lungs Merab could not say that he enjoyed himself, but Irakli ran at a steady pace, and cast glances over his shoulder that prodded and provoked Merab - who was not above at least enjoying the view while he followed.

Irakli noticed, and it did not put an end to the flirtatious grin he taunted Merab with.

That evening, having assessed the TV channels in the flat and found them wanting, Irakli announced his intentions to go and watch the football in a canal-side pub they had passed on their run. Merab declared that he would go too.

They walked shoulder to shoulder down the street.

"I thought you didn't like football?"

"I should learn." Merab shrugged, blowing smoke from his cigarette, feeling the light, friendly ache in his legs pull as he walked off the morning's exercise. "You can teach me."

Irakli chuckled. "Lesson one: Barcelona is the best team."

"Barcelona? When have you been to Barcelona?" Merab teased. "What about FC Batumi?"

The pub seemed to hold half of London: crowded, shoulder to shoulder, pint glass to pint glass. It smelled of sweat and beer, with no enveloping cigarette smoke to mask the more prosaic odours of the masses. The noise rang around low ceilings bedecked with paper flags: Merab looked up and did a double-take at the proliferation of the St George's cross.

Irakli pushed a cold, dripping glass of pale lager into his hands and they elbowed their way through to a spot where they could see a wall-mounted television, its screen small and bright and green.

The match itself was not enough to spark a new passion in Merab, but what surrounded it was glorious to him. Amid the noise Irakli leaned close to be heard, his breath on Merab's face and neck, his eyes lit with enthusiasm, his cheeks growing pink from the heat and the beer. He cheered unselfconsciously, shouted encouragement and insults that blended with those of the others watching the match. Around them there was a whirlwind of languages that were swept up together to produce a single, comprehensive meaning.

At the goal, Merab was laughing and cheering along with them, and Irakli threw an arm around his shoulders, shaking him as he shouted, sparing him a single, happy glance that made Merab forget how to swallow his beer.

Coughing as Irakli patted his back distractedly, Merab was aware of a new kind of freedom in this crowd, in this place. Where was Luka to see him now? Who would tell his parents, or Aleko, if they saw something they did not like? It was London, decadent London, where it did not matter who liked what - such things were none of anyone else's business.

From the goal until the end of the first half, Merab paid far more attention to Irakli than to the match.

They left for a cigarette at half time - as did many of the other punters. Leaning side by side on the railing of the beer garden, overlooking the dark canal, Irakli met Merab's open stare and his mouth escaped his attempt at control, pulling up into a smile even as he dropped his head and looked away.

"You shouldn't do that; someone will see," Irakli shook his head.

Merab continued to stare at the curve of his ear and the back of his neck, both of which had taken on a gratifyingly warm glow. "So? What do they care?"

Irakli raised his brows and tried to look condescending. "Those guys? They care." He gestured with his cigarette at the group of Englishmen laughing in a raucous group behind them.

Merab peered at them over Irakli's back and took a sip of beer. "Nah." He looked down at Irakli's raised eyes, at the nervous quirk the scar on his right eyebrow sometimes gave his expression. His mouth looked soft and Merab bit his bottom lip, thinking seriously of testing his new and giddy confidence against the busy, public space. Then the group nearby laughed performatively again and fear won out. Frustrated, he turned to mirror Irakli's pose and blushed in turn at the sympathetic look he received as they finished their drinks and cigarettes in silence.

They stayed after the match - a few beers down, revelling in their new student overdrafts, the sting of the price did not seem so bad, and the pub's clientele saw a change as football fans drifted out and the pre-club crowds arrived. They sat in a corner booth and talked about other people milling at the bar - they were confident that no one else there would follow what they said to one another. Sights that were novel outside certain quarters of Tbilisi were everywhere: they pointed out tattoos, piercings, logos to one another and made up stories about the people they could see.

Walking home, when the streets were nearly empty, and the warm colour of the lights reminded them of home, Irakli asked Merab how he had enjoyed the football.

Merab shrugged. "It was ok. You were right about Messi. He's like a dancer." The thought occurred to him suddenly and he straightened his body and rose onto the balls of his feet, unsteady with beer, weaving a few light steps until he bounced off Irakli's shoulder.

"Not everything has to come back to dance!" Irakli laughed, but Merab pretended to ignore him, and pranced ahead, lifting his knees high, his arms outstretched, mimicking the striker's expert technique as he hopped and danced across the pavement.

It made Irakli laugh harder, so Merab continued, spinning, extemporising, until Irakli unfurled from where he had paused to grasp his stomach with the hilarity of it. Irakli came towards him, echoing Merab's moves, playing the defender to his attacker. They skipped circles around one another, taking the elements of traditional dances about merchants and warriors and re-fitting them to the football pitch.

Breathing hard, both grinning and dizzy, the game brought them to the stairwell beneath the flat. Merab leaned happily against the wall, sweat at the roots of his hair cooling fast in the night air. Irakli gave him a playful shove on the shoulder and walked past, starting up the steps.

Trailing him automatically, Merab followed, looking at his feet and wondering what else he could have done to get Irakli to relax.

With his head down, he blundered straight into Irakli, who stood on the half landing at the turn in the stairs: shadowed, hidden from the light that came in from street level and the light from the walkway on the first floor.

Irakli laughed silently as Merab rebounded from his chest.

Realisation dawned, though Merab could not see Irakli's expression well, and he closed the space between them at the same time that Irakli moved. Merab's fists were trapped between their bodies, bunched in the front of Irakli's leather jacket, while Irakli's hands brought him near and held him. One palm, as it had done before, cradled the back of Merab's head, the fingers finding their way into his hair, while the other took the small of his back and curved his body like a bow. Merab arched into it, opening into a kiss that deepened with very little preamble.

The tastes of smoke and beer faded away, and Merab was submerged in the welcome memory of Irakli's own flavour. Irakli's face - like his own - was rough with a day's stubble and it burned around Merab's lips, but he pushed into the sensation, squirming to free his arms and loop them around Irakli's shoulders. The skin of Irakli's neck felt hot enough to burn beneath Merab's hands, while Irakli's fingers pressed firm against the base of Merab's skull, travelling possessively across his scalp.

Irakli kissed him with a ravenous, serious intent that - not for the first time - obliterated all of Merab's fears.

His mind was half-frantic with relief and desire, and Merab had to force the thoughts of _what next_ from his head. This was no secluded orchard spot, and they would have to make the most of a lone sliver of shadow in the stairwell while they could: fully clothed in cold London air, each touch a taunt, a reminder of what this was not.

Then taunts turned to promises - deposits laid down for a future that Merab could not yet picture, but had to believe could, _would_ exist - when the initial rush of contact eased into something slow and exploratory. Merab stretched up onto the balls of his feet to press back against Irakli's soft lips, holding his body as close as he could, offering himself up with a fierce tenderness.

Irakli pulled back, his hand still cupping Merab's head, and Merab's murmur of complaint was forestalled by the look in his eyes. Irakli seemed almost surprised at himself, his mouth parted, his gaze roving over Merab's face, full of what looked like awe. Then one corner of his lips pulled up to meet the dimple in his left cheek and he lowered his head to Merab's shoulder, dropping both hands to embrace him tight around his back. Irakli buried his face in the warm gap between the collars of Merab's jacket and hoodie and the skin of his neck while Merab, drawn off balance by his grip, leaned hard into him, his cheek against Irakli's shoulder.

Irakli nuzzled into Merab, his breath hot and damp inside the collar of Merab's clothes, his lips gently sliding over skin as he spoke inaudible words against Merab's body. Again, Merab had to wriggle his arms back down inside Irakli's embrace in order to weave them out around Irakli's hips, and he held Irakli tight around his waist and back in turn.

They remained for some time - as they had done afterwards, beneath the trees at the summerhouse - silent and entwined, until Merab pushed his face against Irakli's neck and nudged him to raise his head in order to be kissed again. Savouring each deliberate movement, they stalled lovingly for time, and Merab scorned all concerns beyond the moment.

Until, once more, Irakli dodged Merab's lips and chuckled softly, butting their noses gently together. He closed his mouth and eyes, his smile broadening playfully as he felt the feather soft touch of Merab's kisses tracing their way around his lips.

"I don't want to let you go."

On admitting this, Irakli buried himself against Merab's neck and hair again, and Merab's smile reached up to make his cheeks ache. He let his head loll into Irakli's burrowing gesture and gripped him tight as Irakli spoke again, his voice muffled against Merab's skin.

"I don't want to let you go and wait months to do this again."

"Then don't," Merab said, only half-joking.

"Don't let you go?" Irakli laughed against his neck and contrived to bring Merab's body even closer to his.

"Don't wait months."

Irakli raised his head reluctantly and gazed, heavy-lidded, swollen-mouthed at Merab. "You know how thin those walls are, we can't do that - she'll tell our families, she’ll kick us out."

Merab jutted his chin stubbornly. The thought of his mother and grandmother made him pause, but only just. He chafed against the need to live in fear of what others would think, against the absurdity that anyone should care - and against the sense that Irakli was scared of that and something more. Was Irakli afraid of growing closer, looking for excuses to keep himself at a distance, and was that because of Merab, or because that was how Irakli had always been in his relationships?

"We'll find a way. Quietly," Merab assured him, but he did not lean up to kiss Irakli. He wanted him to see the fervent certainty in his eyes, the knowledge that he meant exactly what he said.

Irakli took it in, with gratifying solemnity, and then his laughter hissed through his teeth and he pulled their bodies closer to the pillar at the turn in the stairs, deeper into the pocket of darkness, and told Merab he was unbearably arrogant as he brought his lips down to Merab's.


	4. Chapter 4

Term arrived with yellow autumn light and crisp, cool evenings that descended early. Their class was small, not much larger than the group Merab had practiced with his whole life, but they came from all over the world. Accents and appearances edged each person with individuality, even as they all performed the same warm-ups in the same loose practice gear. Merab watched them all hungrily, assessing movements, flexibility, inventiveness. Some of the body language in their dance was shared, but some styles were like a different dialect, and Merab was both enthralled and impatient to learn all he could.

There was ambition, but the students were not like the people he had danced alongside at the National Ensemble. The roaring stench of masculine posturing and edgy competitiveness was entirely absent - perhaps it would surface later in the academic year, but for now they were all discovering things together. They worked in mixed groups, they chose and changed their partners as they preferred or as the teacher instructed. All that was rigid, unquestioning and formal about Georgian dance was made fluid, exploratory and unexpected. From the first lesson on their first day of classes, the students learned as much from one another as from the teacher. It was rigorous but playful in a way that was utterly new to Merab.

He caught Irakli's bemused smirks in the wake of the teacher's instructions, and both cracked up, meaning that they had to explain to their classmates about Aleko and his rules in the lunch break. Again, they found points of familiarity and of novelty when their classmates compared their own experiences.

Despite their disparate backgrounds, Merab found the other students easy to talk to - in conversation, Irakli seemed to run into unexpected dead-ends more often, testing the approach to a new city he had last used in Tbilisi and finding it less effective among the young, non-smoking, studious crowd.

On the bus home following the first day's lessons, Merab endured Irakli's dour silence. He stood among crowds, pushed into the space at the foot of the stairs, rolling with the stop-start motion of the vehicle, and waited until a pair of seats freed up on the top floor. Then Merab sat down next to Irakli, restless with the happiness of a day that had met his expectations and fired him up with excitement. He leaned against Irakli deliberately, and Irakli shifted with discomfort and glared out of the window.

The bus had emptied a great deal since they first got on, and when they nearly had the top floor to themselves, Merab gazed at Irakli's profile. He smiled candidly, as though he found Irakli's mood endearing.

Finally, Irakli raised his scarred brow and returned Merab's attention with a glare. "What?"

"I had a nice day. Didn't you have a nice day?"

Irakli sighed. "They all seem really...immature."

For a moment, Merab considered this. "Because none of them wanted to come for a drink afterwards?"

Irakli's lip curled in an almost-laugh, almost-admission. "I guess." His head was propped on the arm furthest from Merab, his elbow leaned against the bus window.

What he said next blindsided Merab though: "That Canadian guy was flirting with you."

Merab laughed, surprised but pleased. "Nah..."

That split brow rose again, and Irakli eyed Merab's flushed cheeks with an inscrutable expression.

"Were you jealous?" Merab asked quietly - their whole conversation had been in Georgian, but still he lowered his voice. He nudged Irakli again with his shoulder and smirked down at his own knees rather than risk seeing a truth he would not like in Irakli's expression.

The silence stretched until he had to look up though, and the softness in Irakli's eyes made him smile and blush all over again.

"Yeah," Irakli said grudgingly. He shifted his shoulder but did not nudge Merab's bodyweight away. "I was."

Even if it was drawn forth reluctantly it felt like a victory. Even if Irakli looked out of the window for the rest of the journey and continued up the stairs to the flat without pause, the admission left Merab's pulse quick and his thoughts in disarray. It did not occur to Merab until much later that, had he been able to tell their new friends that they were a couple, there would have been no need for the flirtation or the jealousy.

Instead of dwelling on missed opportunities, Merab devoted the remains of the hectic first week to gaining what ground he could - and adding to that which had already been won. Their shifts at the restaurant began on the Thursday, and at work he sparkled. He knew what to do and he knew that he was not just charming the customers but showing off to Irakli. Working in the restaurant after a day at class used to leave him exhausted - but it now felt like a familiar, happy routine to fall into. He had never made tips like he made in London, and to be dancing again, daily, would have relaxed and cheered him had nothing else gone his way.

Things did go Merab's way though - Irakli always fell asleep on the bus after their shifts, and he always fell against Merab's shoulder, leaning into him more comfortably each time it happened. No one looked at them - no one, ever, took a bit of notice - and Merab enjoyed the moments where Irakli's hair caught against his chin, when he could leave his knuckles unobtrusively against Irakli's thigh, or even hold Irakli's hand in his, their limbs trapped together between their bodies.

He could smell Irakli on the collar of his jacket even afterwards as they walked to the flat together. The material started to smell of _them_ , not just Merab, not just Irakli, but the blend of their time in the restaurant, their smoke and their aftershave and their skin. On these nights, returning late, in the time when the block of flats was dark and still, they smoked and kissed in the stairwell. They lingered until they were too tired to do anything other than wrap their arms about each other and imagine they were between sheets, just one body sleeping beside another.

Work prevented them from getting involved with much of the first week's after-class activities. It was clear from the lunchtime stories of what they had missed that the other students - or some of them, at least - had only turned down Irakli's suggestion of drinks because it had been mid-week. They spoke of enticing places: pubs that were cheap, venues open late, dancing and hook-ups, gossip spreading already through their little group.

The following weekend, with phone-numbers handed over and venues discussed, Merab and Irakli changed from their white shirts after their Saturday shift at the restaurant and took themselves and their tips on the Tube, deeper into London's busy heart.

Now it was Irakli whose expression lit up expectantly. Merab watched his features unfurl, saw his shoulders pull back as he swaggered down the street towards the pub the others were in. He still glanced occasionally at Merab, but he walked a little further away, like he was asserting his individuality, or their status as separate people, not as a couple or a pair or a corporate unit.

They took the available seats with the other students, on separate sides of the table. Merab tried not to let his eyes wander up to the Canadian who had, apparently, been flirting with him the previous week - and was now kissing another man messily by a brightly lit fruit machine.

The other students were already glassy-eyed and flushed, loud and boisterous. They cheered the arrival of Merab and Irakli like they were returning conquerors. The table was crowded with sticky glasses of all shapes and sizes - empty but for melting ice cubes sitting disconsolately in puddles of red and blue liquid, chewed and crumpled paper straws, and screwed up crisp-packets. One girl threatened, jokingly, to visit the restaurant where Merab and Irakli worked and to test them by ordering all the most awkward things she could.

There was only one thing for it: drink to catch up.


	5. Chapter 5

The setting at last suited Irakli, and he held forth happily on his favoured topics. To his evident delight, he discovered fellow football fans among the group, and argued about the fortunes of Leicester City with a girl who had grown up there.

Merab tried to follow their conversation but still could not maintain an interest in the sport - he half paid attention instead to the talk of music among the students on his side of the table, but ended up drinking distractedly, listening to them while watching Irakli.

Irakli did not become animated like he had done when watching the match a couple of weeks ago - he smiled and leaned his head back, and his hands played on the edge of the table, and Merab watched his every movement carefully, comparing his body language to when they were together.

They were the only two who took cigarette breaks. At first Irakli was quieter outside, though his eyes twinkled in the orange light from the flame and he paced close to Merab, brushing their shoulders together as he passed in the cool night air. Later he complained cheerfully about the others not smoking, and Merab agreed that it was strange that they could not take their drinks outside or their cigarettes inside.

Irakli also complained about the lack of music in the pub and the packed crowds, but he was now restless and leaned quite close to light his cigarette off Merab's when it went out. He made small talk with other smokers and shared his lighter. He watched a screen displaying football highlights with narrow-eyed scrutiny, waiting to allow himself a small fist pump when he saw the result he hoped for.

Merab watched every gesture with a combination of adoration and envy - in the tiny smoking area Irakli prowled like something not meant to be contained, and Merab longed to take him away from there, to somewhere they could dance, their bodies close, cocooned within the anonymous darkness of a club floor. He wanted simultaneously to watch Irakli at a distance, admiringly, and to hold him tight, far from the crowds, refusing to share him any longer with strangers or the new friends they both, undeniably, wanted to impress. The two desires pulled against one another, leaving an ache of tension that filled Merab as he looked at Irakli.

A few beers and vodka chasers later and they had both reached a peak of drunkenness that matched the others'. Merab found himself laughing too much, sipping his drink coquettishly as he talked to the other students. He kept one eye on Irakli's response, while Irakli, in a thin and faded t-shirt, flushed like he was over-warm, and spoke too loudly over the soft-spoken English students with them.

Commenting that he'd never have taken up the habit if cigarettes had cost so much back home, Irakli was led into a description of the vices of his youth. He told the table about dancing at weddings in Batumi, about the tower on the waterfront where free brandy flowed every night at 7pm sharp. They were stories that were new to Merab, and he listened, rapt, laughing when Irakli laughed, admiring the colour in his cheeks.

Around the table, others added their own experiences, covering cities Merab had never even heard of, recounting beach parties and adventures. Irakli announced his intention to buy a round and took one of the girls to the bar to help him carry the trays. Merab watched them go, nervous, and a little annoyed that he needed to be nervous. He was distracted by a nudge on the arm and invited to say how he had misspent his time before coming to England. After a moment's hesitation where he compared the possibilities, Merab decided which night to describe.

When Irakli and the girl from Leicester returned, Merab was part-way through relaying his wildest night out - he laughed and his hair fell across his forehead as he bowed his face, remembering Nata and her friends. He imitated Mate's indignant squawk: "And he said: 'How can you be broke, when you spend all day - '"

He was interrupted by the girl from Leicester, who set down a tray of multicoloured shots and complained that she had missed the beginning of Merab's story. Irakli handed round the beers from his tray and gave Merab an inscrutable look as Merab, encouraged by the others, returned to the beginning of his tale.

"Wait, you saw this boy on the bus?"

"You didn't know him at all?"

"Oh my god, it sounds like a night out in my hometown..."

Merab waved his hands for silence and swept up a shot glass. He had to rearrange his unbiddable lips once or twice to get the word out but managed eventually: "To spontaneity!" he quoted one of their teacher's favourite terms.

The others drank with him and leaned around to hear the story of his night out with Mate, from their seemingly bizarre meeting to the scramble for cash to pay the taxi.

Primly, Merab ended the story with him falling asleep in the changing room at the studio and did not bother mentioning the details that had led to the adventure - nor what had come immediately afterwards. He avoided Irakli's look, which had turned heavy and nagging across the table from him, an insistent presence in the corner of his eye.

"You're serious?"

He was listening to someone talk about accidentally stumbling into the red light district in Amsterdam and did not recognise that the belated words of disbelief were for him.

"When was that? When did you go there?"

Merab turned to face Irakli with an insouciant expression. He smiled sweetly and took a gulp of beer. "You were in Batumi."

Irakli was no more sober than Merab was, but he attempted a professorial approach, his drooping eyelids balanced by a solemn frown and clasped fingers.

"I can't believe you did that; those places are so dangerous - if you'd been seen - "

"I was seen," Merab rolled his eyes.

" _What_?"

"Yeah, but what does it matter? We were just dancing. Compared to the shit my brother got up to? Did you help him with any of that stuff?" Merab leaned across the table, his elbows skidding in puddles of beer and melted ice.

"What stuff? No." Irakli scoffed. He was drunk enough to be evidently honest, but his cheeks were pink and he took a long draught of his drink. Awkward embarrassment by association with David - it was a feeling Merab knew well.

"Oh my god, so much history here." Someone elbowed Merab.

They both ignored it, eyes locked, suddenly aware of being resentful of one another.

"Why did you go out like that?" Irakli pushed. "Why take that risk?"

"I go clubbing with cute twinks all the time, the risk is entirely worthwhile," someone else said, and the colour deepened in both Merab and Irakli's cheeks, but they did not invite a widening of the conversation.

Merab worked his teeth over the inside of his bottom lip. Aware of the hint of interest from some of the others at the table, he answered in Georgian. "Because you weren't answering your phone."

Irakli's brows rose and he gave a startled shrug. "I'm sorry? I had no credit, I told you."

"Well I didn't know that," Merab snapped back. This concern, coming now, felt like a mockery of how desperately he had needed to hear it from Irakli that night - and how badly it had hurt when he had heard nothing. A ribbon of anger twisted inside him, defensive, uncharitable, drawing on deep channels he had not let himself acknowledge before now.

"And had you really run out, or did you just lie to make it easier on me, like at David and Sopo's wedding?"

The perfect lines of Irakli's jaw shifted and he glowered, pausing again to take a gulp of beer, maybe hoping Merab would take his words back in the meantime.

Merab rolled up his sleeves, now damp from the spilled puddles of drink, and laid his bare forearms across the table, his hands cupping his elbows, head back, waiting for Irakli's response.

"I had no credit," Irakli repeated crisply. His eyes were dark beneath low brows and he looked wary and irritated. "You think everything is about you, all the goddamned time. I spent my credit texting my mum about my sick dad on the bus."

Hurt, as he was meant to be, Merab let his features harden. He nodded and took a sip of beer, but it was starting to taste stale and unpleasant on his tongue. "Right. You know, I'm sorry about your dad. But you use that as an excuse to run away from everything else. You didn't say if you were coming back, you only tried to call the once." Merab's words seemed to cycle more quickly between the flurried beating of his heart, up to the loosened readiness of his tongue, out to where they could have their unpredictable effect on the world. It was a struggle to hold Irakli's gaze, and he did not always succeed, but his hands bunched into fists and he made himself finish. These were words he had never thought he would utter - things he had not wanted to examine when it looked like he would never see Irakli again.

"Yeah, I was seen - by Luka. He poured water in my face before practice, I was tired and hungover and my form was dreadful. So Aleko noticed and made me do a spin. I tried again and again, and it was really fucking stupid but I - I felt like if I proved I could do it then it wouldn't matter that Luka had seen me. That it wouldn't matter that you hadn't been there, that you had just disappeared like...like you were ashamed."

Irakli's mouth was a flat line, but he breathed through his nose nervously, his frown shifting. He held his glass like he intended to drink casually from it but did not raise it. His knuckles were pale.

"Injured myself," Merab finished with a shrug, his lips twisted into something that was not quite a smile. "Just like you said I would."

Now Irakli looked a little green - horrified, Merab might have thought, had he not been concentrating on holding back the sudden feeling of tears rising. As deep as his contentment had been only a few minutes ago, the shock of emotional whiplash made him smart. The other students at their end of the table were still watching them - though they could not understand - and pride kept Merab stitched together as he felt their eyes on him.

"You'd have known if you'd thought to ask," Merab lifted a shoulder again, precluding the statement that Irakli looked like he wanted to make.

Stiffly, Irakli raised his glass to his mouth, though he barely drank from it. "So, you shouldn't have gone to the clubs, then," he said, aiming for a reasonable sounding, sensible tone.

Merab bounced a hardened fist off the surface by his glass - not with enough confidence in the action to make much sound, but he felt it, and that was enough. He pushed away from the table. "No! I didn't injure myself because I went clubbing. I did it because I was acting stupid. Because I was so fucking sick of people being judgemental about something that I don't regret."

He had got to his feet as he spoke, and he looked down at Irakli's wide, uneasy eyes.

In the silence that followed, someone at the other end of the table muttered, "Wow, sounds like serious business."

Someone else followed up, more quietly, but still with too much drunken volume: "Lovers' tiff?"

Merab let out a noise of exasperation and rolled his sleeves down. He had thought about staying out and finding out who wanted to go on to clubs, but he decided at that moment to leave the group to Irakli instead.

Let Irakli explain what made him so uneasy about a night on which Merab had danced and had fun, met new friends, laughed. A night which had only been spoiled by the enduring fear that Merab had been rejected, by a thought that surfaced in every moment between distractions: that Irakli had, in hindsight, chosen to regret what they had done.

Merab picked up the remains of his beer and drained it, then gathered his coat and bag and left, saying in English: "See you at class on Monday."

He was halfway down the street before he heard steps pounding after him. Merab hunched his shoulders and resisted the urge to turn.

Once, twice, Irakli's hand swiped at Merab's arm - Merab knew him by the sound of his hard breath, and the smell of his aftershave, supplemented by that of the alcohol on his lips. Merab shrugged free, but did not speed up, and Irakli grabbed for his hand a third time, his palm hot and sticky, the gesture too rough.

Merab pulled away once more, and Irakli did not try again. He followed Merab in silence, a few steps behind, down the road to the Tube station and onto the platform.

The train pulled up and Merab sat down heavily in the middle of a near-empty carriage. Irakli leaned on a pole nearby, one hand gripping the rail above him, his expression blank and his face turned towards Merab's feet. Merab could feel his gaze travel up and over him guiltily. He could imagine his eyes, large and apologetic, promising to make it up to him in their gloomy little stairwell.

As the train pulled up to their stop, Irakli took a breath in the empty carriage and blurted out, "Well I guess the other students know, anyway."

Merab stood waiting for the doors to open and looked up, red-eyed, with a frown. "Did you tell them?"

Irakli shrugged awkwardly. "Nah, no, I - but you heard what they said. 'Lover's tiff'?"

With a derisive roll of his eyes, Merab stepped onto the platform. "That's not the same at all!" he scoffed. He hurried towards the stairs, leaving Irakli behind again.

Merab was unsure what would soothe his grazed feelings; what might help him to put the cover back on the anger he had released.

After the injury, he had let himself be angry at Luka, at the other boys at the National Ensemble, at David, at Aleko and the other judges, at Aurora and at Irakli's neighbour, and even at Mary. He had been angry at himself. But he had not, until that night, allowed himself to be angry at Irakli - really angry - in case the feeling spilled over into a resentment of that wonderful weekend at the summerhouse. He had tried to act serious; to be grown-up about it, like Irakli had acted at the wedding party: speaking evenly, mutually agreeing that it could not happen, accepting that that was just the way the world was.

But here, every day, Merab was confronted with the knowledge that it was _not_ just the way the world was. It did not _have_ to be how the world was. There were boys in his class here who loved boys; girls who loved girls; some who did not seem to have a preference either way. And he was still shackled by his own doubts. Pursued by the fear that it had not just been circumstances conspiring against them, but Irakli's regrets - regrets that he had shelved temporarily for the sake of an easy life with his unasked-for London flatmate. Merab was shadowed, every moment, by the miserable, secret dread that he was in love with someone who was ashamed of him.

He did not pause at the stairwell to the flat, but took the steps two at a time, unable to stop or look back.

He heard Irakli's step falter, pause, begin again only slowly, and - whirled up in his own pain - Merab scrabbled unsubtly for the key under the mat and opened the door to the flat without care. It clattered noisily behind him, and the metal blinds chattered against each other and the glass. He cursed and strode hastily through the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming that door as well, with a hollow, final sound.

He shrugged angrily out of his rucksack and his jacket, kicked his shoes off more aggressively than he meant to against the chest of drawers, and hauled off his socks, hoodie and jeans before flopping onto the bed. He lay face down beneath the duvet, his head pushed into the pillow, his hands in his hair. Merab screwed his face up against the covers, and wasn't sure whether he wanted to cry but couldn’t or was about to cry and didn't want to.

Dimly, he heard voices outside the room.

Irakli, apologising. He sounded drunk. He was trying to be quiet but his voice carried.

Mary's aunt said something in response, and Merab only belatedly caught the meaning of the sound. She said, "It isn't good to go to sleep on an argument."

A door closed. Merab breathed hard against the pillow and felt his cheeks grow warm. His hands balled into fists in his hair.

The next sound made his shoulders tense to aching; his grip made his scalp ache.

Irakli stepped inside Merab's room and closed the door behind him.

He moved gingerly across the floor, then swore as he tripped on Merab's bag, and Merab looked up with a start, his hair wild and his eyes wide. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Irakli propped one hand against the wall and froze. He still had his jacket on. Still carried the bag of clothes that he'd changed out of at the restaurant.

"I'm...I thought I...I wanted to say sorry," he said in that laconic way he had.

Merab stared at him, untrusting, as Irakli pushed off from the wall and made his way with a wobbling step towards the bed.

He sat down heavily on its edge, but the hand that hovered for a moment above Merab's shoulders and then settled, splayed, on his back, was as gentle and tender as it could be.

Irakli's fingers moved, his hand contracting and expanding, stroking at the fabric of Merab's t-shirt and at his warm skin beneath. He stared at his hand, while Merab lay with his head to one side, looking up at Irakli's expression.

"For what?" Merab asked stubbornly.

"For lying," Irakli murmured after a pause, his eyes candid, his expression open despite Merab's frown. "About the engagement. It was dumb. I thought I'd never see you again. Thought I'd just go home and be able to forget about it."

Merab hid his mouth behind one fist and gnawed nervously at the skin of his knuckles. "You wanted to forget."

For a moment, Irakli's hand stilled. He looked stricken. "No! No, I. I thought I had to forget."

His fingers moved up to tease, softly, at the tips of Merab's hair. "But I was telling the truth about my credit. And I didn't cut the call on purpose. I wanted to -" He bit his lip and laughed without mirth. Shaking his head, Irakli sighed. "I think I thought I could break it off over the phone."

Merab pressed his teeth against the bones in his fingers and lay very still, his eyes stinging, fixed on Irakli's face. "Do you want to break it off now?" he said quietly, his words muffled with reluctance, squashed against his own hand.

Irakli just shook his head again. "I did run out of credit by texting my mum. But you were right, too. I used them as an excuse to run away from a lot of things." He looked over what could be seen of Merab's face and his expression made Merab shiver.

"My mum knew it - she thought I was running away from the audition. She sent a tape of me to the school here; it's the only reason I ended up in London. The scholarship is more than I could make dancing at weddings." He broke into a sudden, bright grin. "Especially without my chokha."

Something in Merab's eyes softened playfully at Irakli's tone. He kept his hand to his mouth, half-hiding his expression, but awe had crept back into his look.

"You know, you're much braver than I am, Merab," Irakli shifted on the edge of the bed, angling more to face him, his palm moving heat across Merab's back in circles and zig-zags.

Merab laughed behind his hand, his body curving against Irakli's touch as he did so.

"I mean it." Irakli chuckled, leaning down so that his face was near Merab's. His expression turned serious on the heels of his words and he sat up again abruptly.

"It frightens me. You do. I can't say how, but there's stuff you make me think of that I'd never thought before."

His words fell like fat drops of rain on parched ground. Their substance barely penetrated, but Merab was mollified, instantly, by the feeling. Merab tried to keep his smile behind his hand but he was certain Irakli would be able to feel his heart pounding through the back of his ribcage.

In seeming proof of this, Irakli was looking at his own hand again, his brows furrowed quizzically. "And it's. It's not just that, well, that you're a guy. I thought that was it, at first. But all of this is...different"

He trailed off, his hand continuing with its small movements, his stare wide, surprised at himself.

It was Merab who drew close, rolling so that he could sit up, his t-shirt, gold chain and hair rumpled in contrary ways. He met Irakli's dazed eyes and took his face between his hands and kissed him slowly.

Irakli held Merab's waist and returned each movement with gentleness. Merab felt Irakli's tension melt beneath his hands.

He still wasn't sure it was all he had wanted to hear, but it was enough - that Irakli was there with him was enough. Merab didn't ask him to stay, but Irakli began to unzip his jacket and shimmy free from it. He stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear and climbed beneath the duvet, muffling his laughter at the creaking of the bed by rolling his face against Merab's shoulder.

The bed was narrow, the covers were small, but Irakli's body worked its way close against Merab's. He turned Merab so that his back was against Irakli's chest and Irakli's arm snaked around Merab's waist - up and under the hem of his t-shirt to brush the skin of his belly and hip. Irakli pressed his lips to the sweeping lines of Merab's shoulder, disturbing the chain of his necklace before nuzzling into the back of his neck.

There was no moving: Irakli had him held firmly with one arm around him and the other beneath the pillow and Merab's neck. His body curved along the lines of Merab's body like an echo and he was warm and comfortably still.

For a little while, Merab could not help but remain awake, stunned by how easily Irakli had fitted himself against Merab's body. The simple feeling of him sleeping in the same bed - not just next to but wrapped around Merab - was almost unbearably thrilling. Merab wanted to savour every point where flesh touched, to remember the movements of Irakli's thumb on Merab's belly just before it had stilled with sleep. Merab worried, foolishly, about disturbing Irakli with the thundering sound of his heart, and for a moment forgot how to breathe - until he concentrated on the sound and feeling of Irakli's breath and made himself follow it.

One soft, slow cycle of air at a time, his head dizzily unravelling all of Irakli's words, Merab's eyelids at last grew heavy, and he let himself drift off.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the best efforts of his subconscious to hog the covers, Merab woke with a leg stuck out against the plaster wall and no more than a corner of duvet clutched possessively over his shoulder. In the blurry comfort of half-consciousness he knew only that he had slept well and was happy. The morning light and noise of traffic pushed through the thin curtains and, despite his exposed leg, he was warm and his body rested heavily among the covers. The taste of last night's drink and smoke was there - if he moved his tongue incautiously - but while he stayed still, all was serene and wonderful.

Merab rolled his face against the pillow, tugged on the corner of duvet and scissored his legs: the one against the wall pushed against its cool surface and the other moved behind him in search of the rest of the cover.

It found, instead, another limb.

Merab blinked his eyes open. He shifted his shoulder against the pillow and it encountered strong muscle rather than soft down. Behind him there was a groan and the mattress creaked as Irakli moved to retrieve his arm. Merab lifted his head from the pillow and stared, bleary-eyed, at the man in his bed.

"My arm's gone numb!" Irakli muttered, his eyes closed, a beautiful smile on his lips. He cradled the limb across his chest and Merab saw that Irakli had not stolen the duvet - it was falling half-off the bed at an angle, and had been held on across their bodies only by the fistful that Merab had gripped in his sleep.

He turned to face Irakli and propped himself on an elbow. The duvet, abandoned, slipped over the edge of the narrow bed onto the floor.

Irakli's grin broadened to push a dimple into his left cheek and he opened his eyes narrowly to meet Merab's smirk. "Morning," he drawled, and then closed his eyes again and his brows lowered. "Oh god, I'm hungover..."

Merab laughed at his expression but tentatively laid a hand over Irakli's forehead, stroked the hot skin, and then placed his lips on it softly.

"Does that help?"

"Mm, oh yes, I'm cured now."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah, all better." Irakli chuckled.

Merab kissed him on the mouth, not minding last night's drink and smoke. Irakli made a happy sound against his lips and Merab leaned down over him, edging his body closer, thinking eagerly of sliding his hands beneath Irakli's t-shirt.

With a reluctant groan, Irakli put his fingers on Merab's chest and gently held him at bay. "What time is it?"

The light was too bright for it to be early. Merab looked up at the window as though it had betrayed them and they both held their breath and listened to the sounds inside the building.

A kettle was boiling nearby. Mary's aunt moved quietly in her slippers, but now and then she murmured something to her cat, and from the chatter of cutlery and crockery it was clear that she was up for the day.

"Damn!" Irakli hissed.

Merab bent to him again and murmured against his skin, "You can just stay here until she goes to bed tonight."

He won a swift, distracted grin for the suggestion. "And then I'd want to spend the night here all over again."

The sound of Mary's aunt's footsteps grew louder outside, and Irakli tensed instantly, reflexively pushing Merab back and staring, wide-eyed at the door.

"Boys, there's tea in the kitchen. I'm popping down to the shop for milk; shout if you need anything."

"No, thanks!" Merab called.

Irakli remained silent until they heard the front door of the flat open and close, and then he let out a long, unsteady sigh and sat up to butt his forehead against Merab's collarbone. His arms wound loosely around Merab's waist and he leaned into Merab until their balance gave way and Merab was rolled over onto his side, held facing Irakli's sleepy smile.

"I should go back to my room while she's out," Irakli said.

Merab made a non-committal sound and shuffled so that his face was level with Irakli's. Because he could - because the last time he had tried it, all those months ago, he had been rebuffed - Merab laid a hand on Irakli's cheek and stroked the edge of his jaw with his thumb.

This time, Irakli's smile broadened and his eyelids fluttered closed.

"Are you going back to sleep?" Merab murmured after a moment.

"Maybe."

Merab smiled, watching Irakli's features with wonder. He still blew hot and cold in ways Merab could not predict, but last night's flattery had had an impact. It left Merab intensely curious to know what it was that frightened Irakli - what thoughts ambushed him when he was with Merab that left Irakli surprised at himself.

For his own part, nothing in the world seemed simpler than how Irakli made him feel. Merab wanted to be around him, to be near him; he wanted to touch him and look at him and listen to all he said, to learn his opinions and his likes and dislikes and to adorn and enrich the impression he already had with every detail he could obtain. It was just as he supposed love should be: without doubts, without reservations, wholly immersive.

Merab's fingers traced lines up to Irakli's hair and around his ear. The movement made Irakli's smile deepen, his brows rise, and he opened his eyes just as Merab kissed him.

"I'll get tea," Merab murmured against his mouth and Irakli hummed happily.

His arms tightened on Merab's waist and drew him closer. "That's nice. Thanks."

"You have to let me get up though," Merab laughed.

Another groan - mock despair this time - and they rolled, half tussling, though Merab didn't really try to free himself. He ended up sitting above Irakli, one leg off the bed, straddling Irakli's hips, with Irakli's hands still on his waist, Irakli's thumbs on the line of skin just above the elastic of his pants.

Irakli looked up at him, his smirk soft and achingly sweet. He stroked the sides of Merab's waist, pushing up the edges of his t-shirt, and the pad of Irakli's thumb ran over the tattoo that peeked above Merab's underwear.

A heated, serious silence was broken finally by Irakli's nervous chuckle. "I've never seen the film - is it good?"

Merab blinked, struggling to figure out what had prompted the change in Irakli's focus, but the movement of his thumb continued and Merab looked down at the tattoo of the character No Face. He let out a breath of laughter and pulled the hem of his top up a little to watch Irakli's hand move over his body.

"I like it." He shrugged, nonchalance undone by the proximity of their bodies and his awareness of Irakli's response beneath him. "Do you want to watch it? I have it on my computer."

Irakli's eyes wandered over him with suffused hunger. "I'd like that," he murmured.

Merab leaned to kiss him deeply, angling and pressing his hips against Irakli's as he did, so that he drew a gasp from him. He felt the effort that Irakli put into carefully unknotting his fingers from Merab's hair and t-shirt as Merab pulled back to get up.

He cast a grin back at the flushed, gorgeous face on his pillow and threw the duvet over Irakli so that he could pick his way to the door.

Merab padded dreamily down the hall and across the small kitchen space to pour tea. He was smiling at two mugs, stirring in sugar when Mary's aunt returned, breathing hard from the chill morning air.

He could not help his cheery mien. "Good morning!"

She shuffled her damp shoes on the mat and glanced at him and at the two mugs. "Did you have a good night out?"

"I'm sorry I was loud." Merab leaned against the counter and sucked sweet tea off the spoon.

She shook her head. "It happens. I don't want it happening all the time. Are you two friends again?"

The smile that fought its way up his face was accompanied by a blush, so he looked aside, towards the counter. "Yeah. We're going to watch a movie," he said by way of explanation for the two mugs of tea.

Mary's aunt made a sound like 'ah', like Merab's words really did make something clear. She placed a bag down on the counter by the fridge and unpacked the milk as well as two packets of ginger biscuits from the store.

"To go with your tea?" She offered Merab one of the packets. "The second one was free. I thought they might be good for hungover boys." She swiped it back for a second as Merab, grinning, reached for it. "But you don't look very hungover."

Merab shrugged. "Irakli is."

Mary's aunt laughed tolerantly and handed him the biscuits, enduring the kiss on the cheek she received before Merab grabbed the two mugs of black tea and headed back for his room, the packet of biscuits now gripped between his teeth.

Returning, he noticed that Irakli's bedroom door was wide open - the room was dark and it seemed abundantly obvious that he had not been in there overnight. With a glance back to the corner of the kitchen, Merab managed to grasp the handle with a little finger and draw it gently shut before he opened the door to his own room with an elbow and sidled in.

He was sure the way his heart thumped at the sight that greeted him would be visible through the thin layer of his t-shirt. Irakli held the duvet across his body where Merab had thrown it, but his bare, toned legs stuck out at the foot of the bed. He was propped up against the pillow and the dirty grey light was like a halo behind his rumpled black hair. His hands lay loosely on the duvet: fine and strong with long, pretty fingers. When he heard the door, he grinned sleepily and his eyes opened. One side of his mouth pulled up before the other and the crooked smile and unevenly scarred eyebrows increased his good looks to something striking, something that was seared deep into Merab's memory. And he was smiling for Merab as he lay snuggled back in Merab's own bed, relaxed and happy and inviting.

Merab hurried to put the mugs and the biscuits down on the chest of drawers and turned, immediately, to take Irakli's face in his hands and kiss him again.

"Hi, I missed you too," Irakli said dazedly.

Merab gathered his laptop and shuffled in beneath the duvet next to Irakli, who was looking at him with a curious little smile.

"You told her we were watching a film?"

"Yeah, just watching a film," Merab agreed, peering at the screen of his computer intently.

"Was she mad about last night?"

Merab shook his head distractedly, finding the file and hammering the volume level up as high as it would go. "No. Maybe a bit. But not really. She said not to do it all the time."

Irakli leaned comfortably against him, his arm against Merab's arm, his leg stretched out alongside Merab's leg. He looked at Merab again and nudged him playfully with his body.

"Okay. I agree."

Merab looked up with a frown.

"I don't think we should fight like that all the time," Irakli elaborated.

The relief in Merab's snort of amusement went unconcealed as he studied Irakli's expression.

"I was just worried," Irakli said falteringly.

"About the night out with Mate?"

"Yeah. Those prostitutes..."

Somewhat testily, Merab eyed him. "You didn't need to be."

"No..."

"We should go to one of the London clubs," Merab's suggestion tumbled out in a rush. "You'll see, it's fun. No one cares. You just...dance. Be yourself."

Irakli shifted against him, leaning his head against Merab's shoulder - turning his head blissfully to the ceiling, his eyes closed, avoiding giving a straight answer to the need in Merab's own expression. "Maybe. Yeah, maybe."

Merab set the laptop up on the chest of drawers by the bed. They each grasped a mug of tea and angled themselves close beneath the duvet, the packet of biscuits open on the covers. Fingers entwined and fought playfully when they both reached for the packet at the same time, and ginger and sugar lined their kisses.

Merab did not mind that Irakli was missing much of the film. They would just have to watch it again together.


	7. Chapter 7

At dinner, Irakli had commented that he had enjoyed the film, only to be asked, "What was it about?"

He froze momentarily, so that Merab could practically see his mind wandering not to the cartoon, but to the tattoo of it on Merab's body. "Ah...a girl in the spirit world. It's complicated to explain."

Mary's aunt made a sound of polite interest but did not enquire further.

Despite this, despite the fact that Merab knew he was smiling too much, that he felt like he never quite connected with any of his surroundings - only with Irakli, when their knees touched beneath the table, when their fingers overlapped on bowls and condiments passed back and forth - they each went back to their own rooms that night. They were too tired even to smoke at the shared window.

Merab submerged his face in the pillow and covers that smelled of Irakli. He pressed his whole body into the mattress and wished it was Irakli. With his left hand he touched the thin wall between their beds and fell asleep imagining Irakli doing the same on the other side.

Their argument at the pub had all but been forgotten by the other students come Monday morning - they had their own tales to tell of messy encounters and unfair treatment at the hands of doormen and bar staff. Someone mentioned that arguments sounded particularly brutal in Georgian - but the fact that Merab and Irakli partnered each other for one of the early classes indicated no lasting enmity.

No one commented on any new openness between them, but to Merab it was a week of exhilarating, public connectedness. Irakli stopped awkwardly avoiding his eyes in group conversations. He did not lean away habitually if Merab came close to light his cigarette or bump his shoulder against Irakli's. When they were sitting with the girl from Leicester and Irakli was discussing football with her, he smiled and explained that he was trying to get Merab to support Barcelona. Merab was drawn instantly into their talk, bemused but happy to be included - pleased to find Irakli fighting for him in a sense, defending the right to teach Merab to support Irakli's own preferred team.

On the crowded bus after classes, Irakli laughed when they were pressed together in the crush. At home, he and Merab sat at the little living room table together when they had reading and essays to work on and each learned to make tea or prompt a cigarette break for the other without needing to ask.

Thursday came with the first restaurant shift of the week and the owner, at last, asked them both to think about short routines that they could dance out on the little stage in the function room. There was an important booking in a few weeks' time and she wanted to impress - the dancing could help to fill in any waiting time between courses and keep their special guests amused. Nothing too frenetic, she warned, but something that looked traditional to foreigners without being overly militaristic. She paid no heed when Irakli shook Merab by the shoulder companionably and told him his time had finally come.

That night it was Merab who fell asleep on the bus, his legs feeling leaden with a week of dancing and a long night waiting tables. His head rolled against the edge of the windowsill at the back of the top deck and the jerking motion of the bus kept forcing his eyes open as he drifted off. After this happened a second time he felt Irakli's hand snake between his back and the seat, reaching around his body and his puffy winter coat to encourage Merab to lean against his shoulder.

Irakli's leather jacket was not that comfortable against Merab's cheek, but the shoulder beneath it was, and the hand tucked around his hip made him feel secure and protected. Merab made the most of the opportunity and nuzzled wearily against Irakli until he was comfortable enough to sleep. Gratifyingly, he felt Irakli's head turn towards him; he felt Irakli's jaw line against his scalp, buried deep in the waves of his hair.

Approaching their stop, he was woken with a gentle shake, with Irakli's chin against his forehead and his murmured words close by. Merab looked up with a smile and, to his surprise, he spotted an invitation in Irakli's expression. He craned his neck immediately and caught a muscle doing so, but ignored it to claim the prize of a kiss: in public - on an empty bus - exposed against the dark windows to the night - cocooned within the ethereal fluorescent glow of the top deck.

They stood, and Merab trotted down the stairs and onto the pavement in Irakli's wake.

Irakli cast a rakish smile over one shoulder and Merab lengthened his stride to walk in sync with him, their arms touching, knuckles brushing knuckles as they walked.

On Saturday night they found themselves in the same pub, in the same seats at the same table with their classmates. The drinking was less frenetic, less eager to prove something - the conversation was less performative as the students all relaxed around each other.

The progression to the club seemed a natural course. They walked in a swarm, filling the pavement, settled on the London streets like locals. Among their myriad accents, Irakli talked loudest. He was taller than the students around him, gesturing with his cigarette and always glancing around to be sure of where Merab was. His eyes said that he only deemed his punchlines a success if he saw Merab laugh. Merab always laughed.

Their destination was somewhere one of the London students swore was better than all the places the others had heard of. If it had a theme it was nothing more specific than a certain kind of semi-ironic impenetrable coolness mixed with a sprinkling of knowing cheese. The queues outside might have made a more self-conscious person feel underdressed, but Merab just observed the flounces and glitter, the PVC and fishnets with the kind of smile that won him admiring glances in turn.

It wasn't the kind of intimate atmosphere he remembered from the gay clubs in Tbilisi. Their London guide, in the way of Londoners, did not act as though she knew any of the staff or other revellers, although she claimed to have been going there every month for over a year. She led them coolly to the bar and to a place where they could watch the dance floor without having their drinks knocked from their hands. The dancers rolled like a sea, the hands of those drowning in music raised like pale masts: light flared and the coloured tongues of lasers darted over the scene. The bass line seemed to bypass Merab's ears and resound in his chest.

He was impatient to move, and he wasn't the only one. A handful of them split off from the group, soaking into the crowds on the dance floor. Merab glanced back at Irakli as he went and laughed at the expression on his face: Irakli clearly wanted to follow him, but, still unsure, he clung to his pretence of nonchalance, leaning on the narrow shelf that lined the room. His pose was a study in ambivalence, but his eyes were wide and his mouth hung open, a wordless request caught on his features.

Merab raised his chin in invitation and, beneath the moving shadows and the circling discs of reflected light, he saw Irakli redden. Still he held back, hiding behind his drink, the sweetness of his smile concealed. So Merab drew his shoulders back and made himself turn away, his own expression coquettish, his hips and arms limbering up as he let himself sink into the music.

The floor was too packed for extravagant gestures, but with his arms above him, coiling in the dry ice that filled the air, Merab made what space he could his own. He closed his eyes and warmed to the feeling he had missed: the anonymity of the rhythmic nudges from other bodies, the inevitability of the heat that poured over his skin, pricking sweat in his hair and down his back. There was no thought when his movements could connect directly to the music, no shame in the twisting, framing way he held himself to himself, his fingers teasing the act of touch along his own arms and neck.

Merab blinked his eyes open as the track changed, lowering his arms to adjust his rhythm to the new song. He saw the boy from Canada smile at him from between the shoulders of two women dancing together, and Merab glanced down and raised his eyebrows at his own feet when he realised that the Canadian wasn't the only dancer whose movements swayed towards Merab. He was a beacon surrounded by hopeless moths and he leaned back and grinned at the invisible depths of the ceiling, pretending not to have seen their looks.

His hair was soon wet with sweat, and he angled his shoulder towards anyone who danced too boldly, too close, but he laughed and let the language of the dance floor speak for itself. He would play, but he made it clear to them he was not dancing with them or for them.

He had been drawn into the centre of the room and could not see the edge where Irakli had been. Merab swayed his hips, his hands over his jeans pockets, imagining they were Irakli's hands, or Irakli's hips beneath his touch. He stretched his body, yearning, rolling with the beat, feeling like he was falling and wishing he would be caught.

He was turned around, no longer sure which direction was the bar, which was the exit - directions did not matter because with his eyes closed, he was dancing with Irakli whichever direction he faced.

The cold touch of a bottle against his bare arm made him flinch and Merab's movements paused. He leaned back to see the girl from Leicester and the other dance students gathered around him. They had formed a ring of sorts in which he found himself included as they all danced together.

Merab took the beer he was offered and looked instinctively for Irakli - his absence did not have time to sink in before Merab felt a steadying hand in the small of his back and turned to see Irakli standing behind him.

Merab swept his hair back with a dizzy grin and shifted to give Irakli space in the circle beside him. He sipped from his beer and craned to hear what one of the other students said about the time it took to get served at the bar. Next to him he felt Irakli begin to get into the music, his hips moving from side to side and once, deliberately, bumping against Merab, followed up by a playful laugh that could not be heard over the music.

At first, Merab's movements were more contained. He spent more time drinking his beer and watching the others dance, continually aware of Irakli's body next to his, ever cautious lest he move in a way that would frighten Irakli further away again. But when someone took the empty glasses from them and there was a little more space in their circle, Irakli turned to Merab and struck a pose with the back of his hand up to his face: a pose from the kintouri, and a reminder of Merab's own gestures when they had danced together at the summerhouse.

Merab laughed and mirrored him. As before, Merab moved his hand from one cheek to the other, out to the sides, across, up, down, and Irakli's eyes crinkled with mirth as he tried and failed to keep up with Merab's choreography. His efforts dissolved into silliness and he stepped grinning towards Merab, one hand playfully trying to swipe Merab's still fluttering fingers from the air.

Merab did not know who gripped whose hand first. Irakli held Merab's arm above his head, their fingers knotted, and, prompted by some shared sense of the ridiculous that passed between them, Merab twirled on the spot like a ballerina. He was about to spin again, both of them giggling, but Irakli caught his hip with his other hand and brought him close.

The hold was enough to change Merab's body language instantly, and he lowered his chin to look up at Irakli, shimmying his hips towards Irakli's, one hand on Irakli's shoulder, the other still held, ballroom style, in Irakli's firm grip.

Irakli's gaze was as heated as his skin. He smiled a small, private smile for Merab and loosed his hand to run his fingers up the front of Merab's shirt, ruffling cloth over one hard nipple, touch running inevitably up to the groove of Merab's collarbone, to the curve of his neck, to settle at his collar, Irakli's fingers dipping in the edges of Merab's sweat-soaked hair.

Merab's freed hand echoed Irakli's movements and reached the nape of Irakli's neck as they kissed: fierce and salty, thirsty from the drink and the dance. Irakli pulled Merab tight against his body like he usually did in the stairwell outside the flat, but this time without their jackets, with only their sweat-thinned t-shirts between them. Merab clung to him as Irakli leaned into the kiss. It deepened with gasping breaths, as though Irakli had resolved to prove that he was ok with the public act only if he could make up for all the other moments they had had to forgo.

Not to be outdone, Merab held the back of Irakli's head and pressed up onto the balls of his feet, tongue and body pushing against Irakli in unison.

They held each other even after the kiss, hips following the music, the crowds obliterated by their proximity. All else was lost to the sound of relief, which seemed to Merab to consist of his roughly galloping heartbeat, of the vibrations in Irakli's chest and throat when he chuckled, of the bass line that continued to knead at his tired muscles through it all.

No one exclaimed in surprise or disgust around them, no one wolf whistled ironically or cheered. Their friends smiled and continued to dance, and Merab and Irakli moved together as themselves, and it was then enough just to be without shame, without any thought but each other.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title is from a Kakhetian love song found [here](http://songbat.com/archive/songs/georgian-and-laz/satrpialo):  
> შენს თავს არავის დავუთმობ ვფიცავ ამ ჩემსა მზესაო  
> შენთვის გავწირავ სიცოცხლეს შენთვისა შევძრავ მთრებსაო  
> ბევრს არასა გთხოვ მისმინე ამ ჩემი გულის კვნესაო  
> ამაღამ ჩემთან გადმოდი არაკებს გეტყვი ბევრსაო.  
> ❧  
> shens tavs aravis davutmob, vpitsav am chemsa mzesao  
> shentvis gavts’irav sitsotskhles, shentvisa shevdzrav mtrebsao  
> bevrs arasa gtkhov ismine am chemi gulis k’vnesao  
> amagham chemtan gadmodi arak’ebs get’qvi bevrsao  
> ❧  
> I will not concede you to anyone, my sun  
> For you I will move life itself, I will shake mountains  
> I don’t ask much of you, only listen to my heart  
> Come with me tonight and I’ll recite poems


End file.
